


The Shape of Peace

by rosalind25



Category: Robin Hood (BBC 2006)
Genre: F/M, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Lost Love, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-09-20 00:54:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9468230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosalind25/pseuds/rosalind25
Summary: With peace restored to Nottingham, and new lives for the gang, Archer and Guy of Gisborne, what does the future hold for Robin? There's a journey he must make to find out.





	1. Locksley

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a sequel to both The Way Back and The Price of Allegiance, so it's recommended to read these first. 
> 
> Thanks to animaprincess, and Penelope Clemence. In each case one of their comments provided the inspiration for my next fic, animaprincess for POA and Penelope for this one.
> 
> Disclaimer: all BBC Robin Hood characters and the show are the property of the BBC and Tiger Aspect Productions.

**_May 1196_ **

The missile hit Robin from behind and disintegrated, seconds before its intended recipient, who had ducked, lost his footing and barrelled into him. 

“And if I catch you round here with your mischief again, you miserable little toads, I’ll be throwing much worse than that….”

Robin caught the culprit’s shirt and turned him round. He didn’t recognise the lad, but the other who ran up behind, red-faced and breathless, was young Cal, Matilda’s neighbour. She appeared next, looking fit to skin something. Or someone.

“What was that?” Robin asked, wiping his shoulder. His hand came away smeared.

Matilda looked a little sheepish.

“Lakeweed, and half-dried muck. These scrawny lack-wits think it’s funny to fill my pots with it, when I’m not looking.”

“Well, your aim needs work.” Robin was indignant.

“It’s not my fault your…oh no you don’t…”

Matilda clutched a handful of the boy’s shirt, as he tried to squirm out of Robin’s grip.

“Oi, let me go!”

“I’ll sort them out, Robin. Don’t trouble yourself….”

The boy twisted round, peering up at him.

“Hey, weren’t you once Robin Hood?”

_Once_.

“Shut up, Robert,” sputtered Cal. “He still is. I’m sorry, really I am. He’s my cousin, he’s not from around here.”

“Well he doesn’t look like it,” argued Robert. “He’s covered in dust, and he doesn’t carry a bow.”

“True. These days I do use a hammer more than a bow.”

Robin released Robert, and brushed at his jerkin. The boy was right; he’d come straight from a cottage recently burned down, and could do with a bath. 

“You get on, I’ll see to these two.” Matilda had Robert by the elbow, about to march him away. “They have some scrubbing to do.”

“Wait – let’s see if we can convince young Robert who I am.” Robin’s voice was light, but in fact the boy’s words had stung. “I’ll fetch my bow – you two, come with me. We’ll make a wager. I hit any target you give me, and you’re on pots. If I miss, I’ll do them.”

The boys hared off towards the manor, whooping at the prospect of Robin Hood cleaning up after their prank. Matilda gave him a sharp look; she didn’t miss much. 

“Either way, your pots get done,” Robin shrugged.

“You’ve got nothing to prove,” she said quietly, placing a hand on his arm.

“It’s just a bit of fun.”

“You don’t fool me.” She gave him a motherly pat on the cheek, then withdrew, setting her shoulders back squarely.

"I suppose they will get done, eventually,” she went on, brusquely. “After you lot finish larking about in the woods. Just see they get back here before dark.”

They started small: a knot in a tree trunk, a bird’s nest, a fissure in the bark. Then the distance got further, the targets smaller, and the light poorer, but he made each shot. Young Robert – now Robin’s prowess, and his identity, were beyond question – peppered him with questions.

“So, what now? Will you go and fight for the king again? Or will you get the gang back together? Where are they all now?”

Robin laughed, stopping the flow with a hand on Robert’s shoulder.

“No, to both of those questions. As to where they are….well, they have homes now, or families, or both. They fought hard for peace, they’ve earned the right to enjoy it.”

He picked up his quiver, and turned back towards Locksley.

“Come on,” he said, forestalling more questions, “time to go, or Matilda will most likely stick me with one of my own arrows.”

“I’d like to see her try,” young Cal said loyally.

Robin grinned, ruffling his hair as they started along the path.

Abed later that night, he didn’t sleep well. This was nothing unusual. Years of ingrained alertness, first in the Holy Land, then in Sherwood, would never completely fall away. The fact that this was his home, and that he'd been seeing to folk’s troubles around the estate just as he should be, made no difference.

This time, it was Robert’s innocent questions. And that single word: _once_.

For some time, he’d tried to deny it. Discontent seemed churlish, in the face of their good fortune; they’d fought and suffered and lost so much for it, this peaceful existence. Who was he to quibble, now, if he wasn’t happy with the shape it took?

He was glad for the others: to see Guy and Meg, with little Ghislaine….and Much, the way he dithered and fussed now that he was a new parent. In the dark, Robin grinned. But this, he knew, was unfair. Being a parent couldn’t be any more difficult than putting up with him all those years had been, could it? And Much had managed that admirably.

_But then, I’ll never know, will I?_

There it was, the bald truth. His friends were moving on, rebuilding lives. But what hope could he have, when his own dreams lay buried near Acre?

Robin kicked the sheet back, rose, and went downstairs, thinking that a walk in the crisp air might help clear his thoughts.

Wan moonlight fell across the floorboards. He paused on the bottom step, a hand on the rail, and it was there that his memories assailed him...

… _of Marian, ducking out of reach, taunting him for a turn with it lest she forget where she’d hidden his new bow. Wasting precious minutes, when he could have been out practising….  
_

_…..of a rare moment alone in the manor, soon after their first kiss. By the window, sunlight catching her glossy hair, the lure of her soft, inviting lips. Nudging her with his hip, so that she turned to face him. Leaning in, only to hear a tactful clearing of the throat as Thornton entered…._

The good, mingling with the bad.

... _the king’s birthday one year. ”But this ring...” – “Robin!” – ignoring her plea not to provoke Guy further, kissing her hand, drawing the ring gently from her finger….not the only time he would do so. Another ring, another place, the king standing over them…_

Robin slumped down on the step, his throat tight. 

…. _the Night Watchman, coming nimbly down these same stairs; not swiftly enough, to dodge the strike of the curved dagger._

He drew up his knees; bowed his head on his arms.

_She nearly died, that night. But we had more time, then. Not enough, but some._

Much later, Robin rose and went out.

He felt the grass, soft and cool beneath his bare feet. _Marian_. Heard the soft click of the night insects as he strode up the hill, his fingertips brushing the high grasses. _Marian_. The press of trees as he entered the forest blocked the moonlight, but it didn’t matter; he knew the way. _Marian_.

Robin spent the remainder of that night leaning against the tree where he’d once buried her ring. Just before dawn, he woke cramped and sore, the bark digging into his back. He stood up, gingerly. Rolling the kinks out of his neck, he could just imagine what she would have said. _Idiot_.

Perhaps. Soon she’d have had even more cause, given the decision he had come to in the night. Sometime – and he didn’t know at which hour - the conviction had settled that here, now, he just didn’t _fit_ into this life anymore. He knew what he had to do, where he needed to go.

And today – he saw no reason to delay – it wasn’t what Marian would have said that needed to concern him, he realised. It was what everyone else would say. So as Robin loped back to Locksley, he tried to figure out just how he was going to explain his decision.

                                              ------------------------------------------------------------------

“Let me guess, you found a tree hive?” Robin asked, grinning.

Much, with a bandaged hand and a couple of red spots on face and neck, was fiddling with a comb of honey and a small wooden frame.

“Eve has a sweet tooth,” he explained. “Although she did say that the honey will lose its sweetness if the cost is a broken bone. Which it wasn’t, this time. I knew what to do. Tuck told me once how the monks did it at Fountain’s Abbey.” 

Robin gestured at his hand.

“Oh – the clay bowl. The smoke got in my eyes, I grabbed it by mistake.”

“You weren’t up there on your own?”

“No. But Albert got stung, worse than me,” Much confessed. 

“Here.” Robin steadied the frame. Once the comb was in place, Much secured the frame over the waiting bowl and took out his knife. He began scraping away the layer of wax sealing the cells.

“But you didn’t come here just to talk about honey. Why the visit?"

Robin hesitated, watching Much work.

“I’m going back,” he said then, abruptly, wanting to get it over with. “To the Holy Land. To Acre.”

Much’s knife gouged through a section of comb.

“What for? The king isn’t even there.” He looked up, disbelieving. “No, you can’t mean that. Why? Why now, when there’s no horrible …evil…sheriff to fight, and no Prince John threatening to burn Nottingham, and no Black Knights plotting and scheming?”

“That’s just it, Much. I’m not needed here anymore.”

“You’re wrong! Folk here need you, I need you. And besides, you’re always busy.”

“It’s not the same, and you know it.”

“No.” Much gazed at Robin for a moment. “It’s not, is it?”

He went back to his task, applying the knife with such force that Robin suspected the whole thing might collapse.

“I’ve said it before though, and I’ll say it again,” muttered Much, prising away fiercely. “There’s something wrong with you. Why would you even think of going back? It was bad enough last time, when we thought we’d never have to set foot there again, but after all that’s happened.... _oh_. I see.”

Much paused, absently picking shreds off the half-ruined comb.

“Well, couldn’t you at least wait?” he went on. “So that I could go with you? You shouldn’t go alone. I can’t now, not with the baby. She's crawling now, and Eve says.....actually, Eve would be very upset with me. More than upset. And as for me….”

“I won’t be alone,” Robin interrupted. "I’ll go and stay with Will and Djaq.”

Much considered this, worrying one of his stings. Little blobs of sticky wax adhered to his neck.

“Right. Well, I suppose that’s better than nothing. So, what’s your plan? Just to visit them….and the grave…and then what? How long will you stay?”

“I don’t know, I haven’t really thought. Soon. Even if I go now, I won’t be able to do it in a single season.”

“But that would be next year!” cried Much.

Finishing up, he started to wipe his hands on his jerkin, then thought better of it. They went out to the well, Much licking his fingers.

“What about your estate?” he asked, as he cleaned up. “Who’ll look after it?”

“I was hoping I could rely on you for that, and Guy, and Archer.”

“Great plan,” huffed Much.

“As good as any.” Robin grinned.

“You really are….you know, you really are…”

“What?”

“Too much. You know that, don’t you?”

“So, will you do it?”

“I suppose so. If you’re actually going, then of course, I’ll do whatever I can. But you do know that I’ll miss you?”

“I know Much. I’ll miss you too.” Robin slung an arm around his shoulders, as they strolled towards the lodge. “It’s the first time – it’ll be odd, being there without you.”

Much said nothing. This made Robin wary; years of listening to the flow of Much’s thoughts had taught him that when something blocked them, he possibly wasn’t going to like what he heard.

“Have you thought….there was a time while we were there, you know, that I hardly saw you.”

Robin was puzzled; they’d shared a tent, and fought together, and slogged through hostile weather and terrain, and faced down the enemy, mile after torturous mile in the Holy Land. Much had been with him through everything.

“In Jaffa,” Much elaborated.

_Ah. Not everything, then._

“Do you think, perhaps, that you should go back for her? She might still be there. You said, once, that you might go back, if you found that Marian had got married while you were away.”

_But she hadn’t, had she? She married me – we were man and wife. Enough love to last a lifetime, yet given only those few short hours._

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have mentioned her.”

Much mistook his silence for annoyance, afraid he’d said the wrong thing. Who could blame him? _Every facile thought_. Words that could only be forgiven.

“Mentioned who?” Eve came out, a basket of washing at her hip. “What’s going on?”

“Robin’s going back to the Holy Land,” blurted Much.

“Oh.” Eve tilted her head, regarding him. “Why?”

“To lay some things to rest.”

“Oh. So, that’s who you were talking about?”

“Yes.” Robin.

“No.” Much.

Robin glared at him.

“I was close to someone there, for a few months. Much thinks I should try and find her again.”

“And so you should,” Eve agreed. “Going all that way to mourn? Crazy. But to find someone? Now that I can understand. Right, if you’ll excuse me….”

“Here, let me do it.”

As Much took the basket from her, Robin took his leave. This wasn’t going to get any easier. He wished he could just pack up his bag, and saddle his horse, and go, without leave-taking, without explanation, without sympathy.

Without Guy’s guilt. Robin saw the flash of an old pain darken his expression, when he gave him the news.

“I thought you might, one day.”

That was it. But he understood.

Archer didn’t.

“You’ll travel thousands of miles, just to visit a grave? If giving away everything to the poor didn’t make you mad, then this surely does. Like I’ve said before, no woman’s ever going to have that much hold over me.”

“Your loss then,” snapped Guy.

He was talking about Meg, of course. But who was to say Archer didn’t have a point? Robin remembered a day in the forest, a scuffle in the clearing. _I loved her as you loved her._ Guy would carry his guilt to the grave; he doubted either of them would ever be wholly free of the past.

Was that what this was all about? Being free, putting it behind him, so that he could move on?

Robin wasn’t sure.

                                            ------------------------------------------------------------------

It didn't take long to make the necessary arrangements.

Evenings spent with Archer, Much and Guy going over the details of estate management; days they spent accompanying Robin round the small-holdings and the villages, becoming familiar with the people and their problems and his responsibilities to them. Without Vaisey’s yoke, with taxes under control, and capable men of good sense - well, something akin to it in Archer’s case – overseeing their welfare, Robin felt certain folk could survive one winter without him.

Hopefully, Much and Guy would be both aid and rein enough for Archer.

Robin had asked his friends to keep quiet about his going; he wanted to slip away unnoticed. But Matilda had got wind of it. The night before he left, at a village feast, she motioned him aside with her cup of mead and a nod.

“Now look lad, I know you’re going. And I understand why, truly I do. You can never replace her, not here…” she gestured around them, “…and not here….” she placed her palm over his heart. “But think what she would have wanted. And that’s not you, sitting up here on your own every night, having no one to warm your bed when winter sets in, or to fill your home with little ones.”

“Who would probably be half as much trouble again as I was.”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle.” Robin didn’t know if she referred to him, or to his imaginary brood. “So please, think about it Robin. Say your goodbyes, but then let the past go. Let her go.”

Later that night, those words came back to him. Lying flat across his palm was a necklace he’d discovered a couple of days earlier, which he’d left on the washstand. Pulling it out of a trunk, a polished shark tooth on a long cord, he’d not been sure what to do with it, or with the memories it evoked.

He still wasn’t. They seemed so distant, those days in Jaffa; the one happy recollection of his war years, an experience which had pulled him through a very dark time.

The memories began lapping at his mind like the wavelets of a turning tide. But it felt disloyal, here, when this house, this life, _these arms_ …. Marian, and their love, were supposed to fill them all. Now only her loss did, and the emptiness of it was vast and insupportable, and slowly killing him.

After a while, sitting on the bed, Robin realised he was still holding the necklace. He closed his hand around it, pressing the back of his fist to his lips, thinking, not thinking. Woke hours later, and found it still in his hand.

Half asleep, he dropped it into the bag and then lay back down, chasing what rest he could find before dawn, and the hour of his departure.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Acre

_August, 1196_

He’d sailed from Acre once after convalescing; tended by Much, irrevocably changed, intending never to return.

The second time, he’d left heartsore and bereft, his grief so deep that he could feel it’s waters closing over his head. By then, he’d hated the Holy Land even more. Brutal and bloody, its final blow had been delivered by Gisborne’s sword. It had added to his scars a wound that now, years later, still festered as fresh as ever as he navigated the narrow alleys, packed with diverse folk who came either to trade, or to break their pilgrimage. Not many, he’d wager, came intending to try and gather up the pieces of a shattered heart, over a mound of sand in the desert.

It was busier than he remembered. He supposed that with the truce Richard brokered years ago had come renewed opportunity. Besieged for two years, then a battle ground for warring factions, this wasn’t a history to be lightly shrugged off. But the city was making a brash attempt. Gone the rubble and detritus of war. With the walls long rebuilt, if their profile now lacked a tower or two, as folk scurried along, heads down about their business, or haggled at the stalls, or dodged pilfering hands or the piles of dung that marked the route up from the port, who would notice?

Robin turned a corner, grunted as a turbaned camel-herder, his chin stained with beet-juice, bumped into him on the way past. He wasn’t the first; this re-invented Acre was as light on courtesy as the old one. Robin carried on up the alley, making his way past stalls selling clay figurines to pilgrims, and flasks for gathering holy water. He paused to get his bearings by a wall which had a coat-of-arms etched into the plaster; graffiti, left by either pilgrim or crusader. The only house Robin knew to try in the city was Bassam’s. He hoped the Sultan’s pigeon-minder would still be there, and would be able to direct him to Djaq and Will’s home.

“Welcome, friend! I did not expect to see you again. Come in,” said Bassam heartily, once Robin found the house.

The interior, with its trickling fountain and the quiet coo of birds, was just as Robin remembered. So, too, was Bassam.

“Our Sultan was a great man,” he said, once they sat to break bread together, “but that doesn’t mean his sons are. They do nothing but quarrel. Better Saladin had chosen one above the rest; men aren’t content to sit and chew like dogs over the bones they’ve been handed. It’s not in their nature.”

“Without a clear successor, and a strong one, you risk being picked apart by jackals,” agreed Robin.

“And would your king be one of them?”

“I can’t see it. His interests lie closer to home now.”

“So, you’re a man of peace now, Robin of Locksley? And yet,” Bassam mused, stroking his beard, “you must travel thousands of miles to find it? Well, I’ll help you however I can. I know where your friends are, I can send you to them.”

He reached for a tasselled bell-pull, and the porter appeared.

“Makin, take our friend here to the carpenter’s house.” They rose. “I hope you find what you seek, Robin. _Ma’a salamah_. You’re welcome here any time.”

                                           ------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
Djaq and Will didn’t ask what he’d come for; they simply welcomed him with open arms, joy, and a thirst for news that Robin knew it would take all day and all night to satisfy.

But first, he wanted to hear about their lives. One event was clearly imminent, Djaq was rounded with child. As they sat on cushions sipping liquorice-infused lemon water, a small girl with black hair and wide brown eyes wandered in from the next room, trailing a sheet.

“Marian – I have told you to leave that on the bed,” remonstrated Djaq, careful not to look at Robin.

“I’ll get it.” Will rose and took both linen and child back to the room.

“I’ll get more cordial,” said Djaq.

“Stay there – let me.”

“Thank you.”

Djaq placed the cups on a tray for him to take and so, fussing a little, they gave him time to master the quick blur of tears that stung his eyes.

Once all was settled again – little Marian playing beside them with a set of cleverly carved animals – the questions flowed.

“We heard long ago about the king returning, from Bassam, and gossip in the taverns,” said Will. “But nothing about home. Is everyone well? What happened to the sheriff, after the king returned? And Gisborne….is he….did you?”

“No, Will. I didn’t.”

“Why not? The bastard deserved it.”

Robin faltered. Will’s vehemence took him straight back to Imuiz. Of course, the last they’d seen of Guy he’d been riding out on the back of the sheriff’s horse, while Marian clutched at the last few moments of her life. 

Perhaps it was a mistake, coming here. How could he hope to heal these old wounds by reliving them so vividly?

“Robin,” Djaq urged quietly, with a quelling glance at Will, “tell us about the others. About Allan, and Much, and Little John.”

On safer ground, he did so, though his heart wasn’t in the narrative. Soon he made his excuses, intending to visit the grave straight away, but at the door Will put out a hand to stop him.

“Tomorrow, Robin. It’s too near dark, things can happen here. Let’s go to the tavern instead.”

Over an ale, Will told Robin how two days earlier an ex-Crusader had been found in an alley with his throat cut.

“Folk mostly live side by side, but not everyone accepts us. I’ve been attacked in the bazaar. It pays to be careful.”

Over a second drink, he mentioned Guy again.

“I guess you don’t want to talk about it. But it just doesn’t seem right. There he sits, with his wife and his new lands and his babe…..and after what he did…..”

“I told you,” Robin said wearily, “he’s changed. He deserved a second chance.”

“Marian didn’t get one, did she?”

Robin swirled his drink, wishing himself elsewhere. But that was just it, wasn’t it? That’s how he felt wherever he was, every day. It was as if something in his world was out of kilter, something he didn’t know how to fix.

“But a lot of other things don’t seem right,” he confessed. _Nothing_ _is_ , _without_ _Marian_. “That’s why I’m here, I suppose.”

The next morn he rose early. With just a nod of understanding from Djaq, Robin left the house and made his way out to the desert.

He had to walk over the same rise where he’d carried Marian.

Robin stopped there. Images swelled in him like a flood-tide so he could scarce see his way, grief hazing his vision as if he walked towards a mirage. When he neared the twin graves, anguish hit him like a gut punch. Robin dropped to his knees, his feet unwilling to drag him those last few steps. 

Out here, in the barrenness and the solitude, none of the constraints existed that were placed upon him elsewhere. Everywhere else, he must be Robin of Locksley. Here, he was free to kneel in the sand, rocked by the depths of his loss. Here, he was free to be a man alone by the grave of his beloved, dirt crusting beneath his nails as he crawled closer.

He stayed there as the sun rose higher, and as the temperature climbed. At some point, the taste of grief in his mouth became that of grit and thirst. He’d left the house without a water-skin that morning. Thinking wryly what Marian would say were he to perish over her grave from heat and thirst – this sprung fresh tears – Robin tore himself away.

Only as far as the nearest well. There he drew water and, after drinking, wandered on until he found a stall selling dates and almonds. He rested in the shade of a palm, waiting until the sun began its descent. Then, despite Will’s warnings, he made his way back to the grave. Eventually, it was only the thought that they might be worried about him – and that Will might set out to look for him – that sent his steps back to their home.

Robin supposed he must look a sight, judging by their expressions. He glanced down, saw that he was indeed dishevelled and covered in dust. Djaq picked up his hands, tutting over the scratches, and wordlessly applied a balm. This simple, caring act, so reminiscent of their days in the gang, was the last straw in his current state. Declining to eat, Robin retired early. He lay on the low bed listening to the rhythm of the household settling. Darkness fell, sending him sleepless into another night.

He went to the grave again the next day, and the next, and the one after that. It became his daily custom. He never returned in such a state as he had that first time, and so long as he kept some semblance of regular hours, and of eating properly, his friends were happy for him to come and go as he pleased. His visit extended into months.

After the first few days, only rarely did grief overtake him.

He learned, quickly, that Marian was not here. Not in the way she was at home. There, memories of her were so layered into the woods and the fields and the manor that sometimes he felt as if the same air he breathed could once have moved the soft rise and fall of her own chest. Here, there was just a mound amongst rocks and sand, a harsh environment, and harsh, hateful memories. She didn’t belong here. And nor did he.

Funny, though, when those same thoughts had driven him all this way in the first place. Which made him wonder, now, where he did belong. 

One afternoon, Djaq interrupted the game he was playing with Marian, who was using wraps intended for the new baby to bind up his hand. _Like Papa_ , she’d explained.

“Time for sleep, _gameela_ ,” Djaq said, leading her daughter away.

“Will was hurt?” Robin asked her, once the child was settled.

“Nothing serious,” Djaq replied, folding away the cloths. She glanced up, saw that he was preparing to go out again. “Robin, may I ask you something? You’ve travelled a long way, to be here. So, tell me, have you found whatever it was you were looking for?”

“The grave wasn’t too hard to find,” he quipped.

“Be serious,” chided Djaq. “Then tell me this instead: was that the only reason you came here?”

She reached into a pocket in her tunic, and pulled out something he recognised.

“Here,” she said, handing Robin the shark-tooth necklace. “I’m sorry, Marian got into your things. I took it off her before it could come to any harm.”

Finished folding, Djaq placed the wraps in the cradle along with the rest. Robin could see Will’s handiwork, the love and the skill that had gone into it.

“Does it mean anything to you?” she went on.

Robin ran his thumb over the smooth bone surface.

“It was a gift,” he said. “From someone I once knew.”

“Here, in Acre?”

“No. In Jaffa.”

“And this woman…?”

“We were….. close. We had a few months together. Not even that. For part of that time, I was away fighting.”

“Yet you still have this reminder of her, after all these years.”

Djaq faced him squarely.

“Robin, sit.” She glared at him. “Please! I am too uncomfortable on my feet, and there’s something I wish to say to you.”

She accepted his help as she lowered herself to the cushions.

“I’ve no wish to pry,” she said. “And matters of the heart are your own business. But loss…that I know something about. I still think of my brother; to Will I remain Djaq - though to others I’m Saffiya. It’s right and proper to mourn, I agree, and we must do so. But we must also live. That’s what you’re not doing. And if this woman….may I ask her name?”

“Alix. Her name was Alix.”

“Well, if this Alix can help you do that again, then you should do all that you can to find her.”

“Much said the same thing. Kind of.”

“He would,” smiled Djaq. “So, will you at least think about it? You’re welcome to stay with us for as long as you like, of course. But if you decide to go in search of her, then I will gladly show you to the door myself.”

That evening, sitting on the bed, Robin held the necklace in his palm again. He did this occasionally – probably how wee Marian had found it so easily – as he let the memories gently ebb and flow. Memories of Alix’s tenderness, of her selflessness, of the comfort she’d brought long ago to his fractured world. Remembered, too, the suspicion that had once hit him, just before Guy’s attempt on the king, that perhaps – despite all of her caution – Alix might subsequently have borne him a child.

A child. The cord slipped and wove and slipped around his fingers.

Robin toyed with the idea he might already be a father. But the thought of this, and of everything that came with it…he wasn’t sure he was ready. Not when he’d come so far for this, not when he could make his daily trek to Marian’s grave, and then return and lose himself in the busy-ness and the concerns of this little family.

So, he stayed. Djaq gave birth to a second daughter, who they named Daniela. The year turned. Months passed, the sea-lanes re-opening; a year come and gone since he’d left Locksley, wisping gently away like smoke drifting skywards.

Then with the spring influx of pilgrims to Acre’s port, there came whispers of a fresh crusade being launched. Summer brought tidings that the fleet of Henry VI of Germany had reached Sicily; some reports said that they’d already left Messina. There could be no doubt war was coming. Robin had seen all the bloodshed he planned to see in the Holy Land; it was time to move on.

If he was to have any chance of finding Alix – and, if she’d conceived during his time in Jaffa, of giving his name to their child – then it had to be done now, before the land was once again torn apart by strife. The thought that she could be caught up in it – none of the coastal cities would be immune, once armies began to move – lent an urgency to his days wholly at odds with the year he’d just spent here in Acre.

One night, before the first flotilla arrived, Robin told Will and Djaq that he was leaving the next morning.

“How do you know she’ll still be there?” asked Will, when Robin explained. “Jaffa was sacked years ago, before Richard and Saladin’s truce.”

“I don’t, for sure,” said Robin tersely. “But it’s somewhere to start.”

The next day, he made one final visit to the grave.

It wasn’t far past dawn; the air held a softness that seemed to wrap itself around him. Robin, one knee to the ground, renewed the carved lettering on Carter’s cross, and then on Marian’s. It needed to be done, but Robin realised that he was simply putting off the inevitable. Finally, just sitting there, his arms draped loosely around his legs, he wondered how he might possibly say goodbye.

Probably he never could.

He rose and, pressing fingertips to the top of her cross, with tears blurring his vision he turned and walked away.

“So will you come back here?” asked Djaq back at the house, as she hugged him in farewell.

“If only to talk sense into you two. It won’t be safe here any longer.”

“We’ve talked about this Robin – it’s our home. Our friends and family are here.”

“Homes can be destroyed. Friends and family enslaved. Alix has been through all of that herself, once.”

“Then go - make sure it doesn’t happen to her again. _Ma’a_ _salamah_ , Robin.”

With that he turned his horse’s head, and led the animal out into the alley.

“Good luck,” called Will.

Robin raised a hand, moving forward into the press and flow of stale, unwashed bodies. Then, shouldering through the crowd, he turned his mount onto the road that would once again lead him south towards Jaffa.  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	3. Jaffa

There was no answer.

Robin lifted the hand-shaped knocker a third time. When this didn’t generate a response, he rapped loudly on the wood, calling Bashir’s name.

He stepped backwards into the street and gazed along the wall, considering. He remembered the vine on the western wall, and walked around the corner to test the strength of its trunk. On its own, it would never hold his weight. Perversely, he was glad of this; if Alix had been living here on her own, a vine that offered access would be as useful to intruders as it would be to him.

Living on her own? He had no idea, Robin realised, what Alix had been doing these past years. For all he knew, she could be wed. Or if not, then living elsewhere, although he felt sure that she would at least have retained ownership of the house. Which brought him back to the immediate problem, of how to gain entrance and find out if she was still here.

It was his second day in Jaffa, and his third visit to the house. Each time, nothing. He couldn’t waste any more time. Looking up, Robin assessed the height of the wall. He could easily make the shot; once an arrow was embedded in the timber frame of the upper canopy, with the dual use of rope and vine he could make the climb. With this plan, he turned down the hill towards the port, intending to buy a skein of rope and return in the evening.

As it happened, there was no need to put it into action. When he returned at sundown, the elderly porter was opening the door as Robin entered the alley. He hailed Bashir, who didn’t turn. _Some use, a porter hard of hearing_. Robin ran, catching the door on the verge of closing.

“You!” exclaimed the porter.

Bashir lowered the arm he’d raised to fend off an attack.

“ _Marhabaan_ , Bashir. It’s good to see you,” said Robin. “ _Kayf_ _halik_?”

“I see you remember your lessons,” the old man smiled, shuffling inside. “Come. I am fine, thank you.”

Robin followed Bashir into the courtyard. Swirls of wind disturbed the jasmine tendrils over the bench where they’d once held those lessons. Robin plucked one of the blooms, toying with it. Everything was just as he remembered, except that there was no sign of Alix.

“Your mistress, Bashir, is she still here?” He crushed the flower, releasing its scent.

“Yes, but not for much longer. The Lady Alix will explain, she should be back soon.”

Scarcely had the porter finished telling him that she’d spent the last few nights with friends when Robin heard a footfall on the street, the rap of the knocker. He retired into the shadows, listening to an exchange of voices; one, a child’s, querying. But the only person to appear in the courtyard was Alix.

She entered hesitantly, her scarf draped across one arm. Robin took in the dark fall of hair about her face, the clear eyes he remembered so well, grey as a dawn sea, and something in their expression which – when she stepped forward, extending both hands – made him clasp them.

After a few moments, Alix freed one hand. Reaching up, she caressed his face, a gesture which he recalled. Clumsily, then, Robin took her into his arms. And they stayed thus, not moving, until the porter appeared, suggesting robustly that it might be time for them to dine, as the Lady Alix expected an early start in the morning.

                                                  ---------------------------------------------------------------

Foliage moved occasionally, its leaf-shadows flickering in the torch-light. The small meal had been cleared away; the biggest questions asked, and answered.

“Did you find René?” Something he could finally discover.

“Yes. He was in Tripoli, with Marie.”

She’d been happy, then; he was glad.

“Where is he now?”

“With Humphrey of Toron, not far from here. René spent years as a page, but that lord died of a fever. Humphrey would have taken him on as one of his squires, but I told him we were leaving. I knew I couldn’t stay here forever. The only real future I could see for René was in Cilicia. But Humphrey still gives him casual training from time to time.”

“I remember Humphrey,” said Robin. “A good man.”

“He’s been a good friend to us.”

“Is that where you were?” Robin asked quietly.

Alix glanced at him, startled.

“No – it’s nothing like that. Although years ago, before the Count went back to Poitou, Humphrey would accompany me to social gatherings. Geoffrey’s attentions were becoming a little too….pressing. That’s how we first got acquainted.”

Robin remembered the Lusignan, and his dislike of the man; he was glad someone had been here to help shield Alix from him.

“….no, we’ve been staying with Marie’s family. We leave tomorrow, I’ve just come back to get a few things,” Alix was saying. “She’s to be wed soon, and will be moving away. As will I….be leaving, that is. But we decided to visit the Holy City first. It’s years since I’ve been there, and René has never seen it. This will be his only chance.”

“Well you can’t go,” Robin said bluntly. “If the gates aren’t closed already they soon will be. Another crusade is coming.”

“We’d heard rumours. After Jerusalem, we were coming back here just long enough to finish packing, and then to book passage north.”

“There’s no time, the fleet’s on its way. You have to leave – we all do – before the armies come.”

A small sound of distress escaped Alix; Robin crouched beside her, taking her hands, well knowing all she’d suffered during the last crusade.

“Come away now, and you’ll be safe. All of you.” Alix met his gaze, as he folded his hands around hers.

And then, only the most pressing question of all remained unasked.

“So was there, after I left…..” he faltered, looking down at their joined hands, “do we……?”

“Yes,” she murmured, her eyes filling. “You do have a son, Robin. He’s here. You can meet him in the morning.”

Robin released Alix’s hands, and moved to sit beside her on the bench. He was aware, in the back of his mind, that some sort of response was required. Many years past, he’d often needed to ask the gang for a moment’s peace, so that he could think. But with Alix, he had no need to ask. 

_What_ have _I been thinking_?

Sitting in his room in Acre, steeped in sorrow, then with the urgency of his ride south, none of this had left much room for him to reflect what it might be like to actually hear those words: _you have a son._

His questions did come. Not there, in the courtyard, but later, as they lay half-clothed, entwined in the dark in the room they’d once shared.

“What’s his name?”

“What do you think?” she smiled.

“That could be….confusing,” Robin murmured, softly stroking her hair.

Alix said nothing. Instead, she brushed his necklace with her fingertips, where it lay on his chest.

“You still have it,” she whispered.

Robin closed a hand over hers.

“Yes, I do.” His lips grazed her temple. “And you, are still here.”

“Yes, _sireli_. I am.”

And that long-lost endearment fell on his ears like a promise; an elusive note, that to capture might one day mean a respite from all that troubled him. So holding Alix close against him, Robin slept.

                                          ----------------------------------------------------------------         

A tousled head. Hair the colour of his own, and blue eyes, bright and inquisitive though their owner had risen from sleep only minutes before. Robin was in no way prepared for it: the fierce thump of _something_ that almost took his breath away as the boy entered the courtyard, his hand in Alix’s.

_I have a son._

“Who’s this?” asked young Robin, dropping her hand and running to lift a wooden scoop that sat by a pail in the corner. “Oh, he’s not there today.”

“A little frog often hides under there,” explained Alix.

“Well he won’t have gone far,” said Robin. “Let’s have a look.”

They hunted for several minutes, an exercise that involved much reaching under benches, crawling into corners, and lifting of leaves.

“We found him, _maman_!”

The culprit, once discovered, elected to remove itself to the foliage by the tiny, ornamental pool. With nothing to distract him, the boy turned his attention back to Robin.

“You’ve got a twig in your hair,” he said matter-of-factly. “I’m Robin. What’s your name?”

“It’s Robin too.” He removed the twig.

“I can be Robin one, and you can be Robin two!”

“I’m not so sure about that,” said Alix, smiling. “Do you know, where he comes from, the people there once called him Robin Hood.”

“Why?” asked the boy. “Did you wear a hood all the time?”

“No, just sometimes. When I didn’t want people to know I was there,” Robin answered but not, this time, looking at his son.  


He glanced at Alix; if she knew that, then she knew the rest. He’d thought so, from the manner of her greeting the evening before. But it didn’t stop him wishing, for the moment, that a simple hood might be enough for him to hide behind here. That past was his own; he wasn’t ready, yet, to share it.

“What people?” young Robin was saying. “Why did you need to hide?”

“No more questions, _mon petit_ ,” Alix said, scooping him against her. “You’ll have plenty of time to talk later. Come and eat now.”

They left him alone. He sat there, trying to become accustomed to the knowledge that this friendly, engaging child was his own flesh and blood. _Robin two_. Perhaps he would like that better than Robin Hood; after all, what did that name conjure now, except for reminders of pain and terrible loss?

_Later_ , Alix had said. Well, not too much later. There were mounts and provisions to secure but then, as soon as possible, he wanted to get them on the road north. Each day they wasted brought danger closer.

He’d once thought the Holy Land had done its worst to him. Over time it had stripped him of all that mattered: of his innocence, of his youthful ideals, and later, of the one person he’d cherished most in this world. 

But now, in the space of just hours, he knew better. With the claws of war poised over them again – and he’d seen what horrors they could inflict – Robin knew it wasn’t finished with him yet. And nor would it be, until he could get Alix and their son to safety. 

                                            ----------------------------------------------------------

The numbers in their party had swelled, and the days between Robin’s coming and their departure had stretched to a week. Alix shared his urgency; the thought of the coming conflict made her sick with fear. But what could she do? They had friends, people who needed to be warned and, if possible, persuaded to leave. Marie and her family were leaving for her betrothed’s estates – their fates were tied, whatever path that family chose. It had been a sorrowful parting; Marie had been a friend for many years.

She was thankful Humphrey had joined them; René, as always, was glad of his company. René who, by contrast, was suspicious of Robin from the start.

“He’s Robin’s father, isn’t he?” This glaring darkly at where the pair rode together, a small distance from the group.

“Please don’t say anything,” implored Alix, “not yet. Let it happen naturally.”

“Is that best? What’s he doing back here anyway? Did he come to get us from Jaffa because he felt guilty, and when that’s done he’ll disappear again, like he did before?”

The questions, full of resentment, tumbled out.

“That was different, René. Don’t judge him, please, until you know him. Even if that were the case, it could never outweigh what he’s already done for us. Without his help, I’d never have found you again.”

The youth was silent a while. Then:

“Just be careful, _maman_ ,” he said. “I don’t want him to hurt you, that’s all.”

So saying, he kicked his mount forward to ride alongside Humphrey. Alix’s heart swelled with fondness, touched by his concern.

Hope could be a tenacious thing. As they rode, Alix watched Robin and his young namesake, and couldn’t deny that she’d hoped – no matter how improbable - to see father and son together one day. Foolish, she’d often chided herself; Robin had no reason to suspect that there might have been a child from their union.

And yet. Here he was.

He’d come to her once a troubled warrior; now he came a widower, his heart battered and bruised. Around four and a half years, since news of that tragedy had reached Jaffa. Impossible not to hear, at the time, of events near Acre: an attempt on the life of the English king. The Earl of Huntingdon, once the king’s most elite guard, had been too late. The king had been saved by a woman – Robin’s wife, some said, though not everyone credited this as true. She had done the job for him. A terrible irony, everyone said. A terrible cost.

When she saw Robin again, in the courtyard a few nights before, this knowledge had made everything else fade away. Her heart had been full of too many things for words to express.

Now, watching the pair on horseback – Robin’s head bent low, listening – she thought about what René had said. Whatever had brought Robin back, she hoped he was wrong. She didn’t think Robin would leave again, not now they had a son. Even so, she wondered how things might be between them. So many years had passed. And with loss etched so deeply in his heart, Alix wondered if it would lodge there forever.

Caught up in these reflections, she hadn’t been paying attention to their surroundings. It was the second day out, their party travelling at the pace of its slowest member – which happened to be Bashir, plodding along on a donkey intent on grazing. She saw ahead a crossroads, and recognised where they were; half a mile inland was Harun’s farm. As they passed the turn, Alix gazed along that road. Four years, there. Four years, spent as the lowest of the low: her son lost to her, her sister lost, existing day to day with no hope, no future, no status. But the flow of time had restored all these things, except her sister. _Yeva_ ….. _darling Yeva_ …

And now, even Robin. On the surface, he was just as she remembered, although she knew him better than that. But Alix told herself she would neither fret, nor question. If life had any more gifts, she knew well enough to wait for them. If not, she need only remember this road they passed by now, with its once-ravaged farms, to hold fast what good fortune she could, and to tame her heart not to long for more.

“But it could be a shield, couldn’t it?” She heard her son’s excited voice as Robin’s mount drew near. “A Saracen shield? Or maybe a dagger?”

“We saw the sun catch something, over there,” Robin explained, nodding towards the shoreline. “Perhaps. We’ll go and have a look.”

He questioned Alix with a glance, and when she nodded he turned the horse’s head and clucked it forward.

“Tomorrow we’ll pass by where there was a huge battle. I’ll show you where we were when the Saracens came…..a great many, like a swarm of locusts….that’s where we’re more likely to find…..”

The pair moved away, absorbed in discussion.

The next day they did reach Arsuf. Progressing steadily – and finding Bashir a more amenable mount - they reached Acre in less than a week. As their way led to a rise overlooking the city, Alix saw that the fleet had arrived before them. A swarm of galleys filled the harbour; others lay moored offshore. Their pace quickened. Alix fought the temptation to constantly look over her shoulder, as if the Saracen armies summoned to meet this new threat might suddenly appear behind them.

“It isn't the whole fleet,” Robin told her. “It’s just the first wave.”

There’d been skirmishes, too, but by the time they arrived in Acre those armies Alix feared to see had removed to amass at Goliath’s Spring, many miles to the south-east. The distance did nothing to quiet her mind. Robin came to see her at the inn one evening, clearly agitated.

“They won’t listen.” He smacked the heel of one hand hard against the table. “I’ve told Will, now Safadin’s taken the field things will start to move. We must leave. They have to get out of here.”

Alix had met Robin’s friends, the quiet, dark-eyed carpenter, his Saracen wife with wide eyes and a kind, practical manner, and their two daughters, Marian and Daniela. _Marian_.

His wife would have been laid to rest somewhere near Acre, Alix realised. She wondered how often Robin visited the grave. He stayed with his friends, but came to see her and young Robin most days. She suspected that he made his visits on those days he stayed away.

Now, as Robin’s presence filled her small room, Alix decided to broach the subject which had been on her mind.

“Are you coming to Cilicia with me, Robin?”

He stopped pacing, knocked right out of his preoccupation.

“Yes, of course I am. Why do you ask?”

“Because you’ve never said,” she answered simply. Then, before he could say anything: “Why don’t you suggest Will and Djaq come too? And any family they can persuade to leave. Cilicia is far enough away to be safe, but not so far they can’t return here once things settle down again. If they do.”

Robin caught her hand and drew her against him. 

“It makes good sense,” he agreed.

She relaxed into his embrace. One hand stroked up and down her arm, his touch warm and tender, stirring memories in her that went far deeper than the flesh. 

“Of course it does,” she murmured.

“I’ll suggest it to them this afternoon. Come with me. Between us, perhaps we can persuade them.”

But in the end, it was nothing they said which swung the decision. It was a freak accident. Two weeks later Henry, the King of Jerusalem, stepped backwards out onto a balcony in Acre and fell to his death. With the sudden vacuum this created, crusader forces were in disarray. So much so that by the time troops were assembled and dispatched south to aid Jaffa against Safadin’s forces, they got no further than Caesarea before learning that it had fallen.

Saracen troops had swept through Jaffa, looting, burning, taking captives. How close they’d come, not only herself this time, but her beloved boys! The day word of it reached Acre, Alix functioned normally. But that night, once young Robin was abed, his father found her picking up the pieces of a shattered cup. Her hands were shaking so much that the shards clinked together in her palm, and some she dropped again.

“Shhh, it’s alright.” Robin sat on the floor, taking the pieces from her hands – bleeding, she noticed now. He drew her in between his legs. She nestled there, his arms cradling her, one hand holding her head against his chest.

“Do you want me to stay?” he asked after a while, stroking her hair.

“No.” Alix shifted in his arms. “I mean yes, of course I do. But not here. Not in Acre.”

She knew he only made the offer for her sake; that he offered no more nor less than their first, chaste night together in Jaffa. But here, she was uncomfortable even with that. Here, everything was too raw. Robin didn’t speak of it, but she could imagine his sorrows laying on him like a second skin, suffocating him. She knew herself, from those years spent away from René, how four years could be as nothing. How tendrils of loss could still twine about the soul, snagging at your thoughts when you least expected it.

The sooner they got away from Acre the better, for many reasons. And finally, having secured Will and Djaq’s agreement to leave, there was nothing to keep them there. Robin organised passage on a vessel heading to Cyprus, doing so to avoid the raids launched by the emir of Beirut on coastal shipping. 

So with the exception of Humphrey, who would stay and fight, one morning in early autumn their party boarded the cramped, stinking vessel for a journey that would ultimately bring her to a home she’d not seen in almost eighteen years. She was bringing home two sons, and a man who’d once changed her whole world.

Alix wondered if he was about to do so again.


	4. Cilicia

Alix couldn’t have been more relieved, as their vessel slipped into the shadow of the chain tower. It rose over the left flank of the Famagusta harbour entrance, opposite the citadel which stood at the end of a long breakwater.

There were others, she knew, who would be even more relieved. Alix approached Djaq, who was standing at the rail. Daniela was slumped in a sling against her body. The faces of both mother and child were haggard.

“Would you like me to take her when we go ashore? Then you can rest, when we reach the inn.” She stroked a strand of salt-encrusted hair back from Daniela’s cheek.

“Thank you. I’d like that,” said Djaq.

They stood watching the blunt towers over the town walls draw closer. A shriek startled them, making Daniela stir. They glanced around, and Alix saw Robin and Will making use of the placid waters to distract Marian with a game. Little Marian shrieked again, piercing in its delight, as Robin rolled nimbly over a chest to block her escape route.

“He will be a good father,” murmured Djaq.

"Yes, he would be,” said Alix neutrally.

Djaq glanced up sharply, catching her note of doubt.

“He hasn’t told me, yet, what he intends,” Alix explained.

Djaq sighed, adjusting the head-covering to better protect Daniela from the sun.

“Robin is an easy man to love,” she said at last. “But not, I imagine, to be in love with. Give him time, Alix. He will do what is right, he always does.”

“But will that make him happy? If not, he should leave. We’d manage, we have done for this long.”

“Robin’s forgotten how to be happy,” said Djaq. “You know what happened, what he’s lost.”

The reminder cast an ugly shadow on the day.

“Were you there?” Alix asked eventually, glancing back to see if anyone was within earshot.

“Yes. And I wish with all my heart it had never happened.” Djaq replied. “It’s the reason Will and I stayed. We realised that building a life together mattered far more than all our struggles in England. And that they should lead to such a pointless death….”

“Pointless! But she saved the king!”

“Yes, she did. But the man who killed her…..it was jealousy, and yet he was deluded. Marian would never have wed anyone but Robin.” Djaq sighed. “I’m sorry, we shouldn’t be talking about this.”

Alix shielded her eyes against the glare on the water.

“What happened to him?” she asked, changing the subject. “The man who killed her?”

“Guy of Gisborne?” Djaq told her as much as she knew.

“Wait. This man, who murdered his wife…Robin engineers his pardon from the king, and now he lives virtually as Robin’s neighbour?” Alix was incredulous.

“So I believe.” Djaq smiled at her confusion. “You see, what did I tell you? He is an easy man to love.”

Alix gazed out over the galleys rocking at anchor, absorbing this knowledge.

“He is a rare man,” she said fiercely, at last. “A rare man indeed.”

“Yes,” agreed Djaq, “he is. But don’t make him into something he’s not. He isn’t a perfect one. He will still infuriate you, and probably disappoint you at times. He will lose sight of what’s important, and need to be reminded. But yes, he is a rare man, and a good one. So if you can, Alix, love him the way he deserves. For all our sakes."

                                    -------------------------------------------------------------------

Where the alley widened inside the gate, men clustered around low, rickety tables, bent over their games. Robin paused to watch. He was on his way back from meeting another sea-captain. Without conflict looming over them, he was taking more care with his choice of vessel. He hoped not to subject their party to a repeat of the first voyage.

Dusk was swallowing daylight. Shadows were deepening, and lamps being lit. Alert to movement, Robin had already half-drawn his sword when the voice accosted him.

“What are you waiting for?”

The youth stepped out from behind the stone lion guarding the gate.

“What are you doing here?” Robin parried.

No sea-port was safe after dark; René would have slipped out without Alix’s knowledge. He wondered how long the youth had been following him.

“Come on,” he said, “I’m heading back.”

He slid the sword discreetly back in its sheath. René fell into step beside him. They walked in silence, but it wasn’t a comfortable one. The lad had struck him as watchful, quiet, protective of Alix. Robin had seen the looks René gave him over the past weeks; he was always polite, but never willing to engage in conversation.

“You didn’t answer my question.” This time, apparently, was an exception.

“What am I waiting for?”

“That’s right. With my mother, and Robin. You know we’re going home. So are you planning to let him go back as a bastard?”

“No!” Robin exclaimed. He halted, turning the boy round to face him. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“Well it looks that way,” René said sullenly, shaking free. “And it will shame _maman_. It would be better if you weren’t with us, if that’s the case. It’d be better if you took yourself back off to England and let….”

“René!” Alix hurried out from the inn, where their steps had led. “That’s not worthy of you, nor fair to Robin.”

With a poorly concealed sneer, the youth turned and sloped back the way they’d come.

“René,” called Alix.

“I’ll go after him.”

“No. That will just make things worse.” She watched René go.

“He won’t go far,” she sighed. “He’s a good boy at heart. And he never used to be like this. He was such a sunny child, before…everything. I’m sorry Robin, I heard what he said. He shouldn’t have said that.”

“No. He was right.”

Robin took her hand; with laced fingers they walked past the inn, and on down the alley. They reached the portal of the loggia where merchants met and haggled during the daytime. It was deserted now, except for a cat prowling along the line of the wall. They sat on a bench beneath a plane tree; its leaves rustled in the evening air.

“He’s right,” Robin went on, absently stroking a thumb across the back of her hand. “I should have said before now. But…”

He dropped her hand and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, pressing a cupped fist against his mouth.

“…I hoped you knew why I came back,” he went on, at last, his voice muffled. “But that’s hardly enough, is it?”

“It’s alright. I understand.”

“Do you?” He turned his head, caught the hurt in her expression, and in that moment he hated himself. The boy was right to treat him with scorn. But he ploughed on; he’d be honest with her, he always had been. “See I don’t feel whole anymore. It’s like a part of me is missing. So how is it fair, if that’s all I can offer you?”

“Listen to me, Robin. You’re not ready, I understand that.” She paused, looking away. “I know what you’ve suffered. But the fact that you’re wounded in spirit would never make me turn you away."

Robin reached for her, struck – as he had been years ago – by her compassion. Back home, he always needed to be the strong one, the leader, the one everyone looked to for decisions. Yet here, once again, he’d come to Alix struggling with private demons; and here, again, she was prepared to offer him succour, despite the cost to herself.

“But if you need to go,” she was continuing, “then you’re free to do so. I’ll return to Cilicia, you to England, and we’ll forget we ever met again. If that’s what you want.”

Robin shook his head; the prospect made him feel empty. Without them in it, his future looked bleak. He thought of young Robin, who could so effortlessly raise a smile; who filled his heart in ways he was still trying to comprehend. And Alix...

….something else had been on his mind lately, the possibility that when she returned home she might be bullied into another union. Less likely, of course, now she was widowed with two sons, but it was still a risk. She’d already lived through one abusive marriage; it was in his power, he knew, to prevent another.

He made up his mind. Had done so weeks earlier.

“No,” he said firmly.

“Then what do we do?”

“We marry.”

Alix turned to look up at him.

“Just like that?”

“If you’ll have me.” He gave a wry grin. “But then, why would you? That was a rubbish proposal.”

“It could have been better,” agreed Alix.

She took his hand. Robin settled his cloak around them, against the evening chill. He rested a cheek against her hair, felt the soft silk of her skin beneath his fingers as he caressed her arm.

“It will do,” she murmured. “But let me ask you just one thing.”

“Name it.”

She shifted a little, glancing away.

“That you don’t ever betray me.”

Robin moved, then, almost knocking her from the bench. Both his hands cupped her face, forcing her to look at him.

“I will _never_ betray you,” he swore, his eyes locked onto hers.

To seal the promise he kissed her lightly, just a graze of the lips. But Alix wound her hands behind his neck, with a moan so soft only he could have heard it. And in her response he tasted sweetness, and the fragile presence of hope in a world that all too often tore it away.

They both drew back at the same time.

“I don’t think René would approve, if he saw us,” Alix said, a little out of breath.

“No,” agreed Robin. He took up her hand then, turning it in his, thoughtful.

“I’ve no ring to give you,” he said.

“Then let’s break a coin, as the poor do. It’ll suffice, for now.”

But Robin made it his task, for the rest of their time in port, to procure a ring. When he wasn’t interviewing captains, he sought out a goldsmith, instructing him on design, paying over the going rate to ensure it was completed on time. He was determined Alix would be wearing one when she faced her father.

Where her hand lay on the rail now, the two small stones – one gold-yellow, the other leaf-green - caught the sun. _Better than half a coin._ He toyed with it on her finger, and she relaxed against him. Happy, he hoped. What did it mean to him? _Do the right thing,_ Edward had once said. And this time, at least it wasn’t splintering him in two. Perhaps, it could even knit him back together one day.

They stood watching the landscape, fields of young wheat rippling as wind ran over it with unseen feet. Trading galleys made their slow progress along the Pyramus, laden with spices, dyes, alum and rugs. Small fishing craft rocked gently in their wake. They’d be in Mamistra soon. From there, Alix had told him it was a short journey to the clan stronghold: the seat of Lord Sempad, who was both Baron of Vaner and her father.

Robin knew enough of Sempad’s sort to know that displays of rank would matter. So he dug out the earl’s insignia he carried, and wore it when Alix presented him.

Sempad was a man of medium height, with a bullish neck and thick hair. Pale eyes, assessing; watching indulgently the reunion of mother and daughter. With only one daughter returned to her, the Lady Beatrice was reluctant to let Alix out of her sight. Robin hardly saw Alix during those first few days. But she’d secured horses for their use, so he and Will went hawking when they needed entertainment. The rest of the time was spent helping Marian and Daniela settle into their new surroundings, meeting residents of the castle, and competing at chess and merels. Will scrounged tools and some local yew, and began fashioning a child-sized bow for young Robin.

Sempad gave nothing away until the fifth day of their stay. They were on the battlements, Robin wondering if the buck they’d spotted way below would still be there by the time he’d fetched his weapon.

“She has no dowry, you know,” Sempad said bluntly, as the animal kicked up its heels and darted away.

“War widows generally don’t,” agreed Robin. “Whatever she did have went on raising our son; I couldn’t ask more than that.”

“So, you’ll raise him now. In England.”

Robin, both hands on the parapet, turned his head to look at the Baron.

“I will,” he answered. “Does Alix have your blessing?”

Sempad snorted.

“Why not? She’ll be a Countess, won’t she? More than I could get for her here, now, if you left her behind with your bastard.”

Robin suppressed the urge to punch that fleshy face. His instincts had been correct; the man would have tried to barter Alix away again, at the first sniff of political opportunity.

Once the Baron gave his consent, the women of the family set about planning. A few weeks later, family arrived; Alix’s brother Lenard, the only one still alive, came from Amouda. Tall and rangy, with a burn scar on his left temple, Lenard had thick, straight hair tied at the nape of his neck. He took Robin hunting. Discovering Robin had been a crusader, Lenard wanted to test his sparring skills. They stripped to the waist one morning and fought in the castle courtyard, cheered on by a small gathering of onlookers.

In the evenings, sitting by the hall fire, they talked tactics and battles. Lenard spoke of years spent defending against incursions; Cilicia was a prize everyone wanted a piece of, being at the crossroads of east and west. Cities regularly changed hands. Learning Robin had been an outlaw, he was keen to hear of their exploits. But in this Robin demurred, leaving it up to Will to tell stories that it pained him to remember.

He made an exception for young Robin, sitting by his bed each night, telling him tales that he loved to hear.

“So you were a hero?” the boy said one night, his eyes shining. “A real live hero.”

“People said so,” laughed Robin, stroking the hair back from his son’s forehead. “But it was the men and women I fought with, they were the real heroes and heroines.”

“People like Master Will, and _tata_ Djaq?"

"Yes. Exactly.”

“But they’re so…..so ordinary. Aren’t they?”

“That’s what makes a hero, though. Just ordinary folk, taking a stand, saying I’m going to stand up and fight for what I believe in. And that’s what they did.”

Young Robin was silent a few moments, twisting the ears of the stuffed camel Alix had made for him with its black, criss-cross eyes.

“I’d like to be a hero one day,” he said at last. “Do you think I’d be brave enough?”

“I know you would be,” said Robin. “I just hope there’s never any need. Now come on – time for sleep.”

Arms came tightly about his neck, the camel falling to the floor.

“Goodnight, Robin two,” chortled his son. His hair smelt of a day spent in the sun.

There was something else the boy could be calling him. _I must tell him – we must tell him. Soon… tomorrow_. Robin ruffled the lad’s hair. Then he tucked the camel in beside him, blew out the candle, and went to find Alix.

                                           -------------------------------------------------------------------

The Vaner fortress was, like others visible at a distance, built on a limestone outcrop that jutted above the plains. It afforded a strategic view of trade routes heading both east and west - from the Cilician Gates in the west, to the Amana Pass in the east.

The northern foothills of the Misas range, through which the Pyramus passed, were close enough for hawking. Mostly, Robin rode the valleys there with Will or Lenard; Alix preferred a gallop on the plains. Robin didn’t care where he went. Their sojourn here let him glimpse a world far removed from the cares and sorrows of his own. He’d savour it while he could.

Three days before the wedding, he and Alix turned their mounts towards the low hills. Neither remarked on it. They followed the Pyramus some way and, when they diverged, it was to climb the forested slopes of a small plateau that rose over a bend in the river. There the entire plain spread to the east, the west and the north below them, a crossroads guarded on this side of the river by the Vaner fortress. From this vantage point – and from the turbulent history Alix and Lenard had related to him – you could be fooled into thinking you were sitting at the crossroads of the world.

They dismounted, and sat up against a spur of rock, gazing down over the plains. Alix leaned against him. Her sun-warmed hair shone. Robin, his arms around her, toyed with the sash at her hips. Lifting one hand, with his fingertips he began idly tracing the contours of her face. He noticed the flicker of closed eyelids, her lips parting slightly as his light touch moved on down, over the column of her throat. Then the quick, indrawn breath as he loosened her blouse. But there he paused, his palm resting flat above the swell of her breasts.

“We’re never alone, have you noticed? Until now,” he murmured.

Alix caressed his arm, where it lay tanned against her pale skin.

“Our people have a folk tale,” she said to him after a while, “of a stonecutter and his wife. She rejected his advances for a fortnight….”

“…what, you’d turn me away?” Robin teased, indignant.

“….hush….it was because of her lacework, a pattern so intricate it would brook no interruption. The stonecutter’s response was to produce a work of his own, one that matched hers in skill and complexity. His motive, he said, was to show her the delicacy of his hands, and the refinement of his soul.”

Robin removed his hand.

“If you want delicacy, then you have the wrong man,” he said abruptly. “My skills lie with the bow, with killing. And a refined soul? I told you. I’ve only a broken one to offer.”

Robin disengaged himself. He stood and walked to the edge of the plateau; the long grasses there brushed over his boots. He dislodged a few stones, and they went clattering down the slope. Alix came to stand beside him.

“You didn’t let me finish,” she said. “What I wanted to say is, I hope that it will be like that for us. That we will bring out what’s best in each other.”

Robin looked away, ashamed. He reached for her hand.

“You deserve better than this,” he said, shaking his head slowly.

“Robin, I’ve been in a marriage with love on neither side, so I know what that’s like. At least, this time, there will be on one side.” She paused, brushing back strands of hair from her face. “I can say that now, can’t I? But then, you always knew.”

He tugged her hand gently, his lips quirking.

“Yes, of course. I am very lovable, after all.”

Alix smiled at the jest, but Robin immediately regretted it.

“I will do all I can to make you happy, I promise,” he added, framing her face with his hands.

Then he kissed her, thoroughly, one hand bunching her hair, the other pressing her tightly against him. Wind caught their garments, and flicked the ends of her hair around their faces.

Three days later, they were wed. Lenard had taken charge of his outfit; Robin hadn’t brought finery, nor thought to visit a tailor in Cyprus. White shirt; a black, sleeveless coat, embroidered hem and sleeve; boots, and a long dagger worn at the belt which he felt was too warlike for a wedding, but which Lenard had assured him was essential.

“So the menfolk see a warrior,” he said. “Someone to respect.”

Early cloud had threatened, but as he stood waiting by the chapel the sky was a smudged blue. Just as it had been, that other day. Robin looked up, thinking of the vows he would shortly be called upon to make; thinking of the last time he’d spoken those words. He had to duck his head, fidgeting with the blade at his belt, to hide his emotion. _Marian would have expected this of me. Probably chastised me, for waiting this long_. Robin looked up, glancing down the path along which Alix would approach. _And told me to_ give, _not just to take._

And when Alix came between the line of young cherry trees towards him, her gown richly scribed in afternoon sunlight, when it came time it was no hardship at all, because her love for him was writ so clear. It prompted him to defy convention, to leave his place by the priest and walk towards her, to take her hands. As they linked arms and returned to the priest, Will gave him a wink; Robin grinned back. Djaq looked on with glistening eyes. He was glad they were there; they were the closest thing he had that day to family.

But not any longer. Not as the priest pronounced him and Alix wed; not as they took their place beneath the canopy and were joined for the blessing by René and young Robin – who, by this time, had shyly begun to call him _papa_.

Not now the feasting was done, the farewells made, and their son – overexcited, and feeling unwell after so many rich foods – had been taken away by Beatrice, and he and Alix were alone.

Their room was warm when they entered; a fire burned against the autumn chill. Alix sank into a chair, and began carefully lifting the cap clear of her head. But one of the hanging ornaments tangled in her hair; Robin crouched down, trying to help separate the strands that refused to part.

“Maybe Lenard’s blade will come in handy after all,” he considered, half teasing. “I might have to cut it.”

Alix gave a horrified laugh.

“Oh no….although here, if you could maybe cut this…” she held out the spun cord on which the ornament hung, and Robin sliced through it. “I’ll have it out in a minute.”

She stood and went to work at the knot, leaning closely into the polished steel mirror by the door. Robin moved into the chair. He picked up the cap, and sat turning it over in his hand. Alix had been more simply attired than many of the guests, and was the lovelier for it; her one concession to her mother’s wishes had been this traditional cap. She’d worn no veil. He was glad of that.

_Because Marian was never a bride; not mine, anyway._

And with that, the sorrow and the memories that had hovered like shadows during the day flared to life, like twin flames in his heart. He bowed his head, his hands tightening on the edges of the chair. _Marian_.

 _Not now_.

He wasn’t aware Alix was there until she knelt beside him.

“I will never know you, Robin, if I don’t know her,” she murmured, taking up one of his hands.

And such generosity of heart demanded a response. So gazing into the fire, he told her. About the end, as her thumb stroked gently back and forth across his hand.

“She had no veil. We had no ceremony.” He told her about their exchange of vows, in the desert. In the dust of Imuiz.

“Even that was a slap in the face of fate, telling it you’ve stolen our future, but we’ll at least have _this_ ,” he choked. After a moment, he went on. “She was a fighter to the end. ’Keep fighting’ she said to me. Almost her last words, except for our vows.”

Robin looked away, thinking it enough to make the heavens weep. It did Alix; her eyes had filled.

“Fate is rarely kind enough to allow us our dreams,” she said quietly.

“But it has brought me you,” he replied, turning to face her again, once he could.

As soon as he’d said the words, Robin winced; he realised just how they sounded. They could either be seen as insincere – Marian would have read it so, _the same old drivel, does it ever work?_ \- or be taken as they were meant. Which was little better. Like telling Alix she wasn’t the silver arrow.

“I’m sorry,” he said, sliding a hand beneath her hair.

 _What’s wrong with me? I should be making her feel like she’s the only woman in the world_. He’d made pledges to her that day. Instead, here they were, her dawn-grey eyes glistening with tears, for him, and for his lost love.

Their coupling, when it did come – much later in the night, when the fire had faded to embers – was slow, and tender. Or so it began. A quiet joining, a sliding in. As he rocked between her thighs, he had the sense of this being _right_ , of wanting it to be, for both their sakes. This could be home. This could be belonging.….

… _sireli, I’ve waited so long for you_...he felt the involuntary scrape of her nails on his hips, absorbed her soft gasps of delayed pleasure as he withdrew, inch by slow inch, only to suspend her in sensation with his movements there... _sireli, fill me, you must fill me…_.

…words wrung from her with a yearning that was suddenly, and effortlessly, answered by his own. Sinking to the hilt, Robin began to move, his strokes deep, powerful, rhythmic. But as each thrust stroked Alix closer to the brink, as her quiet moans peaked with a cry she couldn’t contain, his pace fragmented, and soon there was nothing could come between them, neither time, nor distance, nor loss. Embedded deep within her body, he spilled there with a long, shuddering groan, a release made all the more intense for having been long denied.

Afterwards, he nestled his face close to hers, their unsteady breaths loud in the quiet room. Rolling onto his side, he took Alix with him, still intimately connected, their lips seeking, affectionate, until he slipped from her. Limbs entangled, they lay there in a quiet embrace, each thinking their own, private thoughts.

And it was then that guilt stole slowly over Robin, creeping out from beneath the wings of pleasure.

_Have I betrayed Marian?_

_Everything is a choice_ , she had once told him. _Would she have understood the ones I’ve made today? The ones which have led me here?_

Alix shifted a little, fitting more snugly against him. _The mother of my son. Our Robin._ As his thoughts settled back with the woman in his arms, Robin wondered whether obligation had, in the strange ways in which fate worked, brought him to the place where he was meant to be. Because – and this almost his last thought, before sleep - if _anyone_ could bring peace back into his fractured world, surely it would be Alix.

And lying wound together, her breath softer than falling leaves against his skin, this wasn’t impossible to believe.


	5. Coming Home

“Master….Robin…..” Much – and Alix remembered him well – threw his arms around Robin’s neck, and wept onto his shoulder.

“I thought I’d never see you again. I thought you were dead.”

“No Much, I’m very much alive,” Robin laughed, returning the hug.

“He still forgets, sometimes,” this to her, over Much’s shoulder, “that I freed him. When he’s overcome.”

Much, skull-cap askew, pushed Robin back furiously.

“Overcome – yes, I am overcome. By anger. Two years! You’ve been away for two years. How could you do that? You never said you’d be gone that long.”

“I didn’t know, Much, I’m sorry. Truly I am.”

Alix looked away, nonplused. He’d been with her for less than a year. Even allowing for voyage time, this meant he’d been in the Holy Land a whole year before he sought her out. He’d never told her this. She tried to push the hurt aside, but the knowledge that he’d spent a whole year in Acre – she knew he’d spent time there with Will and Djaq – rather than coming to find her and young Robin…..

Oblivious to her turmoil, Robin was trying to placate Much. While they spoke, an attractive blonde with a welcoming smile came out of the manor.

“Aren’t you going to introduce us?” she asked, linking arms with Much.

“Oh – I’m sorry, Lady Alix – it’s good to see you too.”

Extracting his arm, Much came toward her; he picked up her hand in both of his, and then looked as if he wasn’t sure what to do with it. His awkwardness was as endearing as ever. Recovering herself, Alix stepped forward, and planted a kiss on his cheek.

“I’m happy to see you’re well. Is this your wife?”

“What? Oh – yes, this is Eve. Eve, this is Lady Alix.”

“Countess of Huntingdon now, I should think,” smiled Eve. “I see you’ve made a family man of our Robin.”

The pleasantries continued, until Robin and Much drifted away. Eve cast them a worried glance, before inviting Alix inside. She met their two young children, and their hound, and all seemed well. But on the walk back to Locksley, Robin was in a dark mood; she struggled to keep pace with his long strides. 

“What is it?” she asked, stopping. “What’s going on?”

Robin walked a little further and then halted, hands on his hips. With his back to her, he looked down at the ground. Alix walked up beside him.

“I trusted him,” Robin said tersely. “We all did. Gave him every chance. And this is how he repays us.”

“Who?”

“My half-brother.”

“What has he done?” 

“He’s got a village girl with child.…Eve’s sister.”

Robin started walking again, agitated.

“What’s he planning to do about it?” she asked.

“He’s done it already,” muttered Robin. “No one’s seen him for the past two months.”

They walked in silence for a bit.

“Will he come back, do you think?” Alix asked, as they entered Locksley.

“Who knows? I’d hoped land and a title would settle him…I went surety to the king for him. Seems I was wrong.”

That was the end of the subject then, although affairs at Knighton, following Archer’s defection, took much of Robin’s time. They had wintered in Cilicia, long enough to see King Leon crowned in Tarsus, and to farewell Djaq and Will back to Acre. Alix was glad they’d had that time, and then the journey, before needing to take on the problems that had seemed to ensnare them here as soon as Robin returned.

It had given them a chance to settle, for the idea of being a family to lose some of its newness. After seeing them wed, and spending time with the clan, René had begun to thaw towards Robin. During the overland part of their journey, when young Robin had had daily lessons with the bow Will made, René had begun, at first, to watch; then, by degrees, to be included. By the time of their landfall in England, it wasn’t unusual to see Robin and René shouldering their bows to head into the woods together for target practise.

There was less time, now, for leisure.

Over the weeks that followed, Alix met Robin’s friends; some by design, some by accident. She met the big man with the shaggy hair and beard, who they inexplicably called Little John. He came from somewhere out of the shire – she didn’t catch where, still struggling with place names. She heard him, as he was leaving, say something to Robin she didn’t understand: _today, is a good day to live_. It was only after he’d gone, and Robin explained everything, that it made sense: he’d been reunited with his wife and son, after an accident claimed the stepfather a year earlier.

Then there was the one with the impudent grin, a wife named Moll, and a babe he seemed to dote on half the time, and look upon as if he were a foreign object for the rest. Allan, his name was.

“How did you nab Robin, then? We thought he’d never marry again, not after Marian.”

Alix hadn’t been sure what to say. Allan – realising his blunder – had been quick to try and remedy it, but Moll had been quicker.

“Need you ask? Just look at her.”

“Well, there is that. I suppose she is easy on the eye.” Moll rolled hers. “But not like you….I mean, you’re much better-looking…well, look, you told me to look…”

“Fool. We’re leaving, luv, before he makes an even bigger cake of himself.”

And a few days after that, Alix met the man who, years before, had murdered Robin’s wife.

                                          -------------------------------------------------------------------

“Did you see the way she looked at me?” rumbled Guy. He and Meg were strolling home from Locksley, hand in hand. “She knows.”

“Yes, of course she does,” agreed Meg. “I wouldn’t worry, she just needs to get to know you.”

“It won’t be me that convinces her, it’ll be you.”

“What on earth do you mean?”

“People don’t forget, Meg. Just because I’ve changed doesn’t mean someone’s tongue, or their hand, will grow back. It doesn’t restore a loved one.”

_Or bring back Marian._ But Guy didn’t say this; he kept that guilt locked tidily away, most of the time, where he wouldn’t burden Meg with it.

“But they see you – they see us,” he went on, “and they figure I’m domesticated now…”

Meg grimaced.

“You make it sound like you’re some wild animal, all tamed and subdued…”

Guy, glancing down fondly, decided to play along.

“Like some poor old bull you mean, brought in with a ring through his nose, and tied to a post.”

“No – like a stallion….”

“….what, gelded?”

Meg sputtered.

“No, I certainly wasn’t going to say that.”

“Well, I think we should stop that train of thought right there,” grinned Guy.

“You started it,” Meg said, laughing.

Sliding an arm about his waist, they walked on. She could always, Guy reflected, lighten his darkest musings.

But the meeting with Robin’s wife stayed with him. Much, in the first year of Robin’s absence – before he began to lose hope of his return – had occasionally hinted Robin might bring home a woman. But the reality of this, of seeing Robin installed at Locksley with a wife and a ready-made family…. this took some getting used to.

The new Countess was lovely, as anyone would expect. Half a head shorter than Robin, with the kind of beauty that owed as much to serenity of manner as it did to the dark, long hair, the almost-straight brows, the fine-boned features, and grey eyes so clear that perhaps everyone felt she was looking right through them. But Guy didn’t think so.

“She won’t challenge him.” He voiced the thought that night, as they were getting ready for bed. “Not in the same way Marian did.”

Meg glanced up; Guy kicked himself for the slip. Even after several years, the subject of Marian was still taboo. 

Sitting on the bed, a second boot half off; Meg, paused in the act of brushing her hair. Guy debated what to do, as he removed the boot. _I’ll follow her lead._ He didn’t want to shut Meg out, but the thought of discussing Marian scared him. It always had. Despite the passage of time, he still believed nothing could fully atone for his past. That an accounting might fall due any time; that it’s form could take the loss of Meg. And of all his crimes, by far the worst, the unforgivable, was the _one_ …..

Meg laid her brush down, and came to sit beside him.

“Now? Is that what you want, to talk about it?”

“Do you?” he asked, his fingers tangling lightly with hers.

But the thought of revisiting everything, of trying to explain it to Meg: what it was like, to be in the grip of an obsession – given time and distance, he could see it clearly for what it was. And then, the warped hold which Vaisey had had over him…

He saw his hand was unsteady, and snatched it away. Meg noticed it too.

“No,” she sighed, “I don’t think so. It’d be like dissecting a nightmare, looking for meaning where there isn’t any.”

She reached out, her hand stroking absently along his thigh.

“But one day, I hope _you_ will want to talk about it, because it’ll mean you’ve forgiven yourself. But until then, there’s no point.”

Guy drew her in close, his lips finding hers.

“The taste of relief,” Meg teased, as he pulled back.

“Minx,” Guy muttered.

They finished undressing. Meg hooked the shutters back a little, to allow some air flow, and blew out the candles before climbing in beside him.

“You know,” she said, winding her legs through his, “I don’t think Robin needs to be challenged. I think he needs to be cherished.”

Guy snorted.

“You think? He wants everyone to love him. Always has. It was at least half the reason for all the heroics he ever did.”

“This is different,” Meg said stubbornly. “And I think Alix will be just what he needs.”

“Hmm.” Guy nuzzled beneath her ear. “Cherished, you say?”

He trailed light kisses along her jaw, and down her throat, as he began caressing her body with long, slow sweeps of his hands.

“I will show you cherish, dearest heart,” he murmured.

“Not if I show you first,” she smiled, turning into his embrace.

                                          ---------------------------------------------------------------

Alix stood by the racks of pottery, admiring the craftsmanship. The day was warmer than usual, villagers fanning themselves as they walked by, but after years spent in Jaffa this was nothing for Alix. She saw a different movement, someone standing at the door of the cottage. Noticed, the woman came out to greet her. She was young, with thin blonde hair, braided around the forehead, a slightly bulbous nose, and a close-lipped smile.

“You buying something for the manor?” she asked, her arms folded.

“Perhaps – I like this jar very much, it would suit the hearth.”

“Most folk buy them for water, but I suppose, if you wanted it for that…..”

Alix could sense the woman’s unfriendliness, but she didn’t know its cause. Envy, perhaps; some folk couldn’t see past a difference in circumstances. _My own fault, choosing a piece for ornament rather than practical purposes_. She decided to try again.

“We haven’t met,” she said, extending her hand. “I’m Alix.”

“I know who you are. And you have my congratulations.” A tiny sneer. “You’ve succeeded where many others have failed, _Countess_.”

Flustered, Alix withdrew her hand.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, I think you do. Now, will you have that jar, or not?”

Alix glanced around the merchandise, taking a moment to compose herself. She wanted to be out of this woman’s presence, but felt that not making the purchase would only antagonise her.

“Yes, thank you. I will.”

But this proved to be a mistake. She stood nearby, waiting while the item was taken down and dusted clean.

“You know he only married you because of the child?” the woman asked conversationally, as if she were discussing the weather. “He never would have married you for any other reason.”

Shocked, Alix met the woman’s eyes. Again, that close-lipped smile. Malice in it, now, Alix saw. She muttered something about needing more coin for the purchase, and fled. Walked home as fast as she could and stumbled into the manor, free then to weep.

_He only married you because of the child._ It wasn’t anything she didn’t know, but to hear it stated so baldly, in front of others, to know this was what folk in the village thought…

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Robin, who’d just walked in himself, came and took hold of her arms. Alix looked away, too ashamed to voice what had upset her. “What is it? Tell me.”

“I…it’s nothing…people gossip, that’s all.”

“Who? What was said?” His grip was gentle, but his tone firm.

“I don’t know her name. The potter’s daughter.”

“Ah. I should have known. That was Kate.” Robin sighed. “I suppose I should have made sure I was there when you two met. She and I, we have...we once….”

Alix, startled, turned to look at him. 

“What, you were lovers?”

“Actually, no.”

Glancing at the open door behind them, Robin took Alix’s hand and led her upstairs.

“She wanted us to be,” he went on, once the closed door gave them some privacy. “She was one of the gang, she lived at the camp. But we never… I couldn’t risk getting her with child. I would have had to marry her then.”

“That’s what she said about us,” Alix said dully.

She saw his quick flare of anger. Saw it replaced by something else, as he tugged her towards the bed. They sat there facing each other, hands linked on the coverlet between them.

“It’s true…that is why I went to find you,” he said, his thumbs caressing her palms. “But think about it…..”

Now he lifted his hands, cupping her face. His fringe almost fell over his eyes; enigmatic eyes, mostly they hid more than they revealed. But not always.

“…there have been others, different times, different places. Maybe a few more than I should admit. And I suppose there _could_ have been a child, with any of them. But Alix,” those eyes, now, were full of warmth, “it never occurred to me, that I should try and find any of them.”

He leaned in, his lips brushing hers.

“Not even one,” he murmured, burying a hand in her hair. “Only you.”

“You are a smooth talker, Robin of Locksley,” she muttered, between kisses.

Robin pulled back, indignant.

“What, you think I’m not telling the truth?”

Alix chose her next words carefully.

“I think you always tell me the truth. But does it _mean_ anything?” Her fingertips grazed the hollow at the base of his throat. “To tell me something is factually true is one thing; to mean it as comfort, when perhaps there are other reasons you didn’t seek out any of them…..”

She saw a swift retort spring to his lips, but he held it back, pausing to think properly about what she’d said.

“It’s true I wasn’t with any of them long,” he said at last, “so it was less likely.”

He captured her hand, pressing a kiss to the back of her knuckles before continuing.

“But I _chose_ to be with you longer, whatever the risk.” Alix held his gaze, almost afraid to breathe. “You were different. Always _more_. And I _want_ to be with you….I want you here.”

She reached out a hand, caressing his beloved face, her eyes filling.

“That’s not supposed to make you cry, you know,” he whispered.

They lay down, each with a hand resting on the other's waist. Softly, he kissed her forehead, her temple, her eyelids - which had drifted closed - each in turn. Afternoon sun bathed them through the open window; a village, a whole estate out there, going about its business, while in here, something – she didn’t know exactly what – had brought them closer, and the warmth of it suffused them both until they were a heartbeat away from…

“Master Robin….a word please, if you’re here?” Thornton’s voice, at the bottom of the stairs.

Robin drew back, resting his forehead against hers. 

“Who’s the master here, I wonder,” he sighed. “I’m sorry, my darling.”

Extricating himself, he rose and went downstairs.

But that night, once everyone had retired, when they had no interruptions, they resumed where they had left off.

Barely inside the door, Robin turned her to face him. There, his knuckles grazed her cheek; clasping his hand, she turned it over, pressing her lips against his palm. A kiss then, sweetly tender, which soon became more as he peeled down her gown. Her shift followed. _Let me look at you_ – this, huskily, as the fabric bunched at her feet, as the velvet summer air settled like a cloak around her bare skin.

Beneath the caress of his gaze Alix grew warm, as if his hands and mouth already followed the path of his eyes. She reached for him, to help shed _his_ clothes, needing to feel that smooth skin, and those taut muscles, beneath her hands...to cover his skin with kisses that she wished might imprint her love for him more surely than the tattooed black cross which marred his left bicep. Her touch grazed over it. If only that love could cast out the hurts of the past - all of them, both the seen and the unseen. 

She needed, also, to find those places where she knew her touch could arrest the motion of his hand mid-caress, or elicit a deep groan, or - his eyes dark with need - hold back the rising tide of his response no longer. He shifted, rolling her beneath him. _My_ _turn_ he whispered, his voice raw, his breath warm against her ear. The years between that moment and their time in Jaffa seemed then to melt away, as each caress wove them closer – some were light, some wholly unexpected, those ones making her toss and clutch the sheet or him as she spun further out of control. When he did enter her, plunging deep, with his touch _there_ and his gaze holding hers…and then not, as their angle changed….that change was all it took, for the storm to gather and break through them both, tearing a cry from her that, as they clung together, subsided in gasps amidst their settling breaths.

And that night, she knew Robin held nothing back. Nothing except his heart.

_Tame mine; don’t ask for more_. His head, pillowed against her chest where it rose and fell, attuned so acutely to him.  
Hair the colour of a lion, laid against her breast. _Tame the heart_ , she told herself.

But there was no taming it that night. Once she was certain Robin was asleep, Alix unwound from him and went downstairs. She sank to the floor in the hall, knees drawn up, and wrapped herself in a tight ball of longing that had no place in the bargains she had made with herself.

“It sounds like he knows his way around a woman.” The voice, disembodied in the dark, made her jump. Any cry was stifled by a hand over her mouth.

“Yet here you are, weeping…I’m not sure what that says about him,” the voice said conversationally.

Alix smelt ale on the man’s breath. She struggled, and tried to bite the hand, but his grip was tight and efficient, bordering on painful.

“Now, lovely lady, I’m not here to harm anyone. I just need to see Robin….in the morning. I wanted to see him tonight, but by the time I got here, it would have been an unkindness to your good self. So, all I ask is your silence. Then we can sit and chat, or you can return upstairs and I’ll just sit here quietly and doze until morning. Do we agree then?”

Alix nodded. The intruder removed his hand, but kept hold of her arm. With nothing to prevent her giving the alarm, she judged he was no real threat. She shook herself free, and went to the kitchen for a rush-light. When she returned, the flickering flame revealed he was unarmed. An arrow-head birthmark peeped from the laces of his shirt.

“You’re the half-brother,” she said. “Archer.”

“I am,” he said, with a mock-bow that cost him his balance. He stumbled to the nearest chair and sank down into it.

Alix put the rush-light in its bracket, and sat across from him. Now there was light to see by she flushed, aware she was clad only in a shift. She thought of what he’d heard, and her face grew hotter.

“I think we ought to wake Robin,” she suggested, uneasy with the impropriety of being downstairs alone with him.

“We could,” Archer agreed. “But I’d rather get to know you first. I’m intrigued, I must admit, to find Robin living in such domestic harmony…where did he find you?”

“In Jaffa. We met when he was first there on crusade.”

“Ah yes, the great and mighty Lionheart. Served under him myself, in Normandy. Got rewarded for it, and put on good behaviour….”

“….which seems to be beyond you,” spat Robin, coming on soundless feet down the stairs.

“Alright?” he tossed at her, as he strode past and yanked Archer out of the chair.

“What _were_ you thinking…” he shoved his face near Archer’s, holding him by the shirtfront. “Eve’s sister? Couldn’t you have found some paid company? If it was anything more than that, you’d have stayed around.”

“It was an accident, I…..”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Of course, the estimable Robin Hood…” Archer snarled, shoving him back, “would never be so careless.”

His eyes flicked to her then, and understanding dawned.

“Ah, but that explains it. You were careless once too….so let me guess, we’ve a little Robin running round somewhere, a….”

With alarming speed Robin barrelled Archer up against the hearth. Archer fought back, Robin grunting as a fist slammed into his gut. Alix had the distracted thought it was just as well she hadn’t brought a new jar home that day. She ducked out of the way as they tussled, knocking over furniture. Taken aback by Robin’s reaction, Alix realised she’d never seen him fight, not since that day they’d first met. She wondered what had him so incensed. He’d been angry at Archer’s irresponsibility, she knew, but this?

If he hadn’t been inebriated, Archer might have been more of a match; as it was, Robin’s fierce, economical blows had him prone in minutes.

“What was all that about?” she asked as Robin, panting lightly, swiped blood from his lip.

Archer groaned at their feet. Robin didn’t answer, but had the grace to look ashamed. He reached down and was helping Archer up when young Robin appeared in the doorway, carrying his toy camel by one ear.

“What’s all the noise?” he asked, gazing curiously at his father and the dishevelled, bloodied stranger.

“Just grown-ups squabbling, like you and René do sometimes. Well, not quite like that. But come on, let’s get you back to bed.”

As she tucked young Robin in, she realised what had sparked Robin’s anger. After Kate’s gibes earlier in the day, to see her receive Archer’s scorn had provoked him to act. If that were the case, it was both foolish and endearing. 

Returning to the hall, she found the chairs restored and the brothers talking quietly. They glanced up. Archer rose more steadily than she’d have expected from a man semi-conscious just minutes before.

“Dearest lady…Countess….”

“Just Alix….”

“You’ve seen me not exactly at my best, I’m afraid, and for that I’m sorry. I’ll come back tomorrow…”

“….you won’t notice much difference,” muttered Robin.

“…as I said, I’ll come back tomorrow, and perhaps we can start again.”

“Will he stay?” asked Alix, after he’d gone.

They were straightening the hall – rugs, cushions, spilled cones. Alix hung a set of bellows back on their hook by the fire-place.

“Who knows?” shrugged Robin. “It’s Archer. But at least he’s come back, so perhaps he will.”

Alix wondered what the future would hold for the sister, Cecily, if she wed Archer. A marriage of necessity, to such a one, held little hope of felicity.

“Will he be kind to her, I wonder?” she murmured.

But Robin had no answer for that. He took her hand, squeezing it gently, and they went back upstairs to bed. 

                                           -----------------------------------------------------------------

Stripping off his jerkin, Robin handed the mare over to the stable boy. He walked towards the manor, thinking of those places in Sherwood where on days like this he could cool off. He’d done all he needed for the day. There’d been rumours the past couple of months, since they’d been back, of a new town bailiff turning a blind eye to corrupt trade practices, and he’d been to see the man. So why not head for the river, a shaded pool? He could take one, or both, of the boys. Alix too.

He paused on the threshold, shaking a stone from his boot; he’d ordered new ones in town, after visiting the bailiff. As he sat on the step, Robin could hear Alix talking to someone. It was Meg’s voice.

“No, I never met her,” she was saying. “But I knew who she was, everyone did. What people didn’t know was that she was the Night Watchman.”

“The what?”

“There was a masked rider who regularly went around Nottingham and the villages at night, distributing packages to the poor.”

“How do you know it was Marian – did Guy tell you?”

Robin knew he should make his presence known. But years of stealth, and his curiosity, and a wistfulness at hearing them speak of Marian, kept him there listening.

“No. Allan hinted, years ago, when I was recovering from a wound at their camp.” A pause. “No, Guy never speaks of her. And I don’t want him to. It was a dark time for him. With everything that happened between them…”

“….and with Robin…”

He stayed.

“Yes.” A silence; a hesitancy, on Meg’s part. “Does Robin mention her at all?”

A greater silence.

“No, not really,” Alix said eventually. “But I know she’s here, everywhere. And they don’t mean to be hurtful, mostly, but folk still talk of her and Robin in the same breath, and it makes me feel as if...I don't belong.”

“People can be thoughtless, it’s true.” The scrape of a chair. The rustle of a dress, comfort being offered. “But I’m sure Robin doesn’t keep silent to hurt you. I’ve seen you together, you must know how he cares for you. Just give him time, Alix.”

Robin sat with the boot dangling from his grip, ashamed now of listening.

“Do you know,” Alix went on, miserably, “I still think of her as ‘Robin’s wife’…. isn’t that strange?”

The unhappiness in that final admission drove Robin up; he didn’t want to hear any more. With an uneven step he crossed the yard and, one hand against a fence, dragged his boot back on. Then he walked blindly through the village, absently returning a greeting or two. Up the hill. He didn’t care where he was going. No, he _knew_ where he was going.

But he stopped, at the top of the hill, and instead sat down there in the high grasses. No Much to distract him with chatter. No Marian. He pulled his knees up, and dropped his head onto his arms. _Marian_.

The afternoon slipped by. He saw Meg leaving, and watched the boys start their chores. Alix stood outside a while with Thornton, who was helping familiarise her with the estate, then she walked on alone towards the church. He remembered she’d suggested they pay the tithe to Father Gilbert for one of their tenants: young Cal’s father, who was laid up with a broken leg.

_What’s best in each other_. Well, he had no skill with stone. But as he sat there, the sun rolling golden over a hillside across which most of his thirty-one years had run, Robin realised that what he _could_ do was carve out a new life for them. One in which the past might be left where it was meant to be.

But he couldn’t do that here. Not at Locksley.

Later that night, when the house had calmed down – he’d cooled off in the end, he and the boys stalking each other with water-buckets, a game that had ended badly when René, mistakenly he claimed, emptied a half-pail of kitchen peelings over young Robin – with still-damp hair he stood at the window of their room, waiting for Alix to come upstairs.

It was a still night with a sickle moon, scarce enough light to see by. But Robin knew the layout of both estate and village without sight: its outbuildings and fields, both fallow and sown….

…he knew which cottage might have a candle burning late that night because of an ailing elder, or an uncomfortable pregnancy…

….he could picture the cross atop the rebuilt church, a dark silhouette against the clouds…or the inky black surface of Locksley pond, rippled by eels like the ones he’d tried to catch more times than he could count as a boy, tumbling in often enough to earn a stiff turn of the belt from his father….

This is what he would be leaving behind, the warp and weft of a life. But its pattern needed to change, because here every thread was coloured by Marian. He knew, after today, that he owed Alix a new start, at one of his other estates. _I still think of_ _her as Robin’s wife_. It shouldn’t be like that; he knew it wasn’t right. She deserved a chance, to see what they could become. To see what he might _let_ them become.

Soon Robin heard her footfall on the stairs. Alix came in, damp and dishevelled, with a smile that made his heart lift.

“You look….” 

“Don’t say it,” she warned.

“….I was going to say fetching,” grinned Robin.

With his palms on the windowsill behind him, and his ankles crossed, Robin looked at her for a long moment. Probably such a decision as he’d come to should be pondered for days, weeks even. As plans went, it would need some refining. But for him, once a decision was made, it was made.

“What is it?” asked Alix, frowning at his silence. “Is there something wrong?”

He held out his hand, and Alix crossed the room and took it. 

“No,” Robin said, with a tender smile. “But we do have something to discuss.”

A choice which, as surely as he could fire an arrow true, he knew was going to be the right one.  


 

THE END  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all those who have read, and to everyone who commented. I really appreciate the support!


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